


John's Moving Castle

by Kryptaria



Category: Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Magic, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Born seven years after Mycroft, Sherlock should have been the lucky brother, destined to succeed at whatever he desired. Lady Holmes takes full advantage of this, parading whole herds of eligible young ladies before him in hopes of making a lucky match so the whole family can share in his good fortune.</p><p>Superstition be damned; Sherlock isn't interested in ladies, lucky or not. But the blond man at the village bakery — the man in the strange blue leggings and knitted tunic... Well, that's another story altogether.</p><p>If only Sherlock hadn't gone and pissed off the Witch of the Waste at just the wrong moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story's been almost a year in the making, and it's not done. Hopefully it will be, but it's a side project between other projects!
> 
> It's based on the book; I've never actually seen the movie. If you have the chance, though, go pick up Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones. She's a brilliant author, and this book is fantastic for YA and adults alike.
> 
> Rating based on future chapters.
> 
> Thanks to Snogandagrope and Mitaya for the encouragement on this one!

These days, all the gossip in the Kingdom of Ingary, from the servants to the highest of nobility, was about how the Witch of the Waste had threatened to kill the King’s daughter, Princess Valeria, before coming out of hiding to terrorise the countryside after not having been seen for fifty years.

The King, of course, had taken steps to deal with the Witch of the Waste, though he’d done so with customary royal incompetence. He’d sent the Royal Wizard, Suleiman, to lay the Witch to rest, but Suleiman had vanished. And then the story changed to claim he’d got himself killed, in fact, which plunged the whole kingdom into terror.

Suddenly, people were seeing the Witch in every shadow. The house servants refused to leave the grounds at night and had taken to carrying protective charms of rowan and heather, and the mayor of Market Chipping had petitioned Grand Duchess Holmes to send word to the King, asking for Royal Guards to help protect the town. As if there was anything in Market Chipping worthy of the Witch’s attention? Sherlock doubted that.

What made people even more frightened was that, soon after the rumours of the Witch, a castle appeared on the hills outside town. The castle was an ugly black construct of disproportionate towers that belched dirty smoke from all the turrets. As if that wasn’t disturbing enough for most people, the castle refused to stay in one place. Sometimes it was nothing but a black smudge on the horizons. Other times, it loomed at the very edge of the hills over Market Chipping, opposite the Holmes Estate.

Once, Sherlock had looked out his window at just the right time and had actually seen the castle moving, bouncing and rattling along the hillsides at a good clip, vibrating so hard that one good blow would surely send the walls tumbling apart. _Magic,_ he thought, and considered investigating.

But the townsfolk already knew all about the castle, and their gossip soon reached the servants and then Sherlock himself, who promptly grew bored with the idea. Apparently, the castle was inhabited by a Wizard who collected the souls of unsuspecting young girls. No girl was safe, neither servant nor noble lady, and soon, the ladies of Market Chipping would only move in packs, scurrying from shop to shop as they bought their flowers and bread and hats and pastries.

Privately, Sherlock wished the Wizard all the best of luck with his collection of girl-souls. He couldn’t see the appeal of surrounding himself with them — the living version was bad enough — but it wasn’t his concern. He was more interested in avoiding the gruesome fate that awaited him. One false step and he might well end up married to one of the few girls who hadn’t yet been de-souled by the Wizard, and that, Sherlock was certain, was a curse far worse than any the Witch and Wizard combined could bespell.

The gossip was particularly bad at the tea shop where Sherlock sat at an outdoor table, waiting for his mother and Mycroft to finish their lunch. He loathed sharing a table with them, having to pretend interest in conversation that was fitting and polite, which were two words for ‘boring’, in his opinion. He preferred sitting outside, where he could watch the comings and goings at Market Square, though very little of interest happened here, too.

Or so he’d thought, until he spotted a man walking by, very handsome indeed, with brown hair cut unusually short, the strands tipped gold at the ends as if from long exposure to sunlight. His face was expressive, his eyes lined just enough to show he spent a great deal of time smiling. His clothes looked very fine, though they were cut and fitted strangely. His deep blue hose looked stiff, like his legs were encased in butcher’s paper and not cloth, and there were patches sewn over the backside, which was visible for everyone to see, since his knitted brown tunic barely went down to his waist.

Realising he was staring, Sherlock turned away too late. The man had already noticed, and approached Sherlock’s table as though invited, his expressive mouth turned up in a smile. There was something powerful and dangerous about him, even though he wasn’t carrying a sword or knife. In fact, the only thing on his belt was a flat black leather pouch that was too smooth to hold coins.

Sherlock tried to stop staring, but he really was _very_ handsome, and besides, Sherlock wasn’t the only one staring. The serving girl who was refilling teacups giggled and made a show of bending down to pour a customer’s tea, and two more girls fluttered their fans to give glimpses of their faces. But Sherlock was the only _man_ who was staring, and he finally looked down at his tea, affecting a bored expression.

He was not going to get accused of inappropriately looking at another man. It _wasn’t done_. It was wrong and against the law and even if it wasn’t, his mother would _poison_ him.

“Hello.”

It took Sherlock a moment to realise he was being addressed, because there was no ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’ attached to the greeting. He looked up, and the man’s dark blue eyes absolutely snatched away his breath. Sherlock managed a nod, but words escaped him.

Instead of taking offense, the man smiled even more. “You’re not alone, are you?” he asked, pointedly resting a hand on the back of the empty chair opposite Sherlock.

“I’m —”

But that was as far as he got. With a loud clang of the bell hanging over the shop door, the family servant rushed out, holding the shopping basket. Behind him, Mother swept out, giving Sherlock a disapproving glare. “Come along,” she called.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?” the man asked genially.

“No. Who —”

It was Mycroft who interrupted this time, glaring his own disapproval. “Mummy’s waiting,” he said, nodding in the direction of the carriage, where the coachman had unfolded the steps so their mother could climb inside.

Sherlock didn’t dare say anything to the strange, handsome man. Mycroft was too perceptive, curse him. So he just stood, abandoning his tea, and went for the carriage, hating his whole family for their terrible sense of timing.

 

~~~

 

Sherlock crossed his arms over his bare chest and glared out the window at the neat little town that filled the valley below, a sea of thatched roofs and whitewashed walls and red brick chimneys puffing smoke merrily into the bright blue sky.

It was hateful.

“Sherlock, you _must_ get dressed,” Mycroft said for the fourth time. “The guests will be here —”

“Sod the damned guests,” Sherlock snapped, turning away from the view to glare at Mycroft. “A cosy afternoon tea for two hundred of Mother’s closest friends is _not_ my idea of an exciting afternoon.”

“The guest list is only sixty-five,” Mycroft corrected with his customary stuffy precision. Unlike Sherlock, he was already dressed in his finest doublet and hose, rust-coloured velvet with gold braid. His cuffs and collar had blackwork embroidery, and the family crest worked in gold and precious gems hung in the centre of his chest, suspended from a thick gold chain. He looked every inch the eligible scion of nobility. Women would be throwing themselves at him.

Of course they would. As the eldest son, Mycroft would marry a duchess at the very least, possibly a princess if there were no eligible princes to snap them up first. Mycroft had said many times that he was rather looking forward to marriage, in fact, though everyone knew he wasn’t interested in having a wife so much as the power a well-planned political alliance would grant him.

The problem, though, was that Sherlock was seven years younger than Mycroft, which meant he was the lucky son. Mycroft’s destiny lay in rulership and dominion, and Sherlock’s in good fortune, which meant the daughters who had no other future in life would be throwing themselves at _him_. And that was why he was still in his bedroom, stubbornly clad only in his drawers and his oldest, softest breeches.

If Sherlock had been born with magic, things would have been very different. Then he could have become a wizard and wouldn’t have to worry about marriage at all. No one sane married a wizard.

He’d tried to work magic. Oh, yes, he’d tried. He’d buried himself in the study of alchemy, languages, and theoretical spellcrafting, but without natural talent, all that knowledge stayed just that: theoretical knowledge. His written spells served no purpose other than to improve his handwriting, and he could spend a week jabbing the air with a wand and accomplish nothing more than repetitive stress injury to his wrist and fingers.

“Don’t make me tell Mummy you’re being this stubborn,” Mycroft threatened.

Privately deciding to smother Mycroft in his sleep, Sherlock snarled, “Fine! Get out!”

Mycroft smiled graciously. He could afford to be gracious, now that he was getting his way. “I’ll send the servants up with hot water for your bath. And wash your hair.”

In answer, Sherlock threw a pillow at Mycroft and went to clean his teeth. Maybe he’d drown Mycroft instead.

 

~~~

 

Tea parties were universally boring. The women wore their best dresses and unlikely hats and carried parasols to hide from the sun, rather than being sensible about it and just going indoors, and the men lurked on the fringe of the party where the smoke from their pipes wouldn’t cause a fuss. If the men were unmarried, they were forced to parade from table to table so they could be introduced to appropriate future brides — which was, sadly, the fate Sherlock shared with his older brother.

Sherlock trailed along behind Mycroft and Grand Duchess Holmes, glancing disinterestedly over the latest prize being put on display for Mycroft’s benefit. She was pretty enough, but her corset was tied loosely and she wore the same perfume as the serving girl, all in grey, at her side.

“Lesbian,” he muttered into Mycroft’s ear as they walked away once introductions were complete.

Mycroft’s shoulders went stiff, and he hissed, “Sherlock.”

“Having an affair with her maid.” Sherlock smiled toothily. “You’d have a servant for competition. Could your ego stand it?”

Mycroft gritted his teeth and stepped more quickly. In turn, Sherlock dragged his feet, looking a bit desperately for _anything_ interesting enough to provide a distraction. The nobility of Ingary were uniformly boring, all caught up in their politics and affairs, and they were all lamentably easy for him to read. The Duke by the pastry table was embezzling from his village treasury. The Countess playing croquet was an alcoholic.

How could they all be so blind, to think that their secrets were actually _secret?_ Sometimes, Sherlock felt as though he was the only person in the world who actually paid attention.

Then a nervous, ginger-haired man approached deferentially from the side, unnecessarily announcing his presence with a nervous cough. “My lord? Sir?” he asked timidly.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked over him, taking note of the relevant details. Low twenties, sedentary build not yet gone to fat, ill-fitted servant’s livery. There was something subtly wrong with him, like he’d been cut apart and strung back together without making certain the pieces all fit. His head was too big, his eyes too small, and the tan on his hands didn’t match what Sherlock could see of his wrists, revealed by the too-short sleeves of his tunic.

He coughed again — not a breathing problem, but a nervous tic — and said, “Sir, my mistress — she asked — that is —”

Hiding a sigh, Sherlock considered making his excuses. Mother and Mycroft expected him to endure the whole excruciating round of introductions, not that he was one to let others’ expectations dictate the path he forged in life. _The lucky son,_ he thought sardonically and said, “Very well. Lead the way.”

Almost slumping in relief, the man skittered off, his movements as jerky and mismatched as the rest of his body. Hopefully Sherlock might find something interesting, or at least distracting, in the woman who thought _this_ was an appropriate servant.

The ginger man led Sherlock to the gazebo built on an island in the duck pond, which raised his expectations another notch. The gazebo was one of the few places on the estate where Sherlock actually felt comfortable. It was covered in roses and flowering vines, which made it a haven for the estate’s bees. He found the buzzing soothing, and he was disappointed when he crossed the bridge and discovered that the bees were all elsewhere.

The woman standing in the gazebo was unusually tall — Sherlock’s height, in fact — and wore midnight black so dark that it seemed to gleam blue wherever the dappled sunlight struck the fabric. Her parasol was closed, the tip resting on the gazebo floor in a way that put Sherlock in mind of Mycroft’s ever-present walking stick. The comparison did nothing to endear her to him.

There were no creases in her gown or bustle, so she hadn’t arrived by coach. Her black velvet hat was adorned with two long, thin scarlet feathers imported from the distant city Zanzib in the desert Sultanates of Rashpuht, far to the south. It was a daring choice of fashion adornment, and Sherlock wondered if she’d purchased them from a trader or if she’d actually visited Rashpuht. Few ladies had the courage to travel beyond their home towns. Given the mystery of how she’d arrived at the tea party, Sherlock wondered if she was a witch.

Her smile was politely formed but looked somehow unpleasant. “Well, you’re far more handsome than I’d expected.”

“Meeting your expectations, however low, is hardly a personal goal,” Sherlock said, leaning back against one of the gazebo railings. He crossed his arms, shoulders stretching the fabric of his tight doublet.

Her eyes, pale and hard like chips of glass, seemed to flare with anger. Behind her, the ginger-haired man stared at Sherlock in open horror, shaking his head frantically.

“I’d _expected_ you to be far more intelligent,” she said icily.

Another day, he might have wondered how things had degenerated so quickly, after one simple comment. Most people waited until the third or even fourth remark before they reached truly interesting levels of anger.

So he smirked and said, “You’re doomed to be disappointed, then, if you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”

Behind her, the ginger man cringed as she brought up her parasol and threateningly pointed it at Sherlock. “You’re not suitable _at all,_ ” she said, flicking the tip of the parasol in Sherlock’s direction. He couldn’t help but flinch, but nothing seemed to have happened.

“You’re —” he said, but his voice came out as a rasping croak, not his usual deep baritone. He coughed, wondering if the overpowering smell of the flowers was finally getting to him.

The woman peered closely at him and then smirked in satisfaction. With a grand sweep of her skirts, she spun and called, “Come, Toby!” The ginger-haired man scurried to her side, looking at Sherlock in a horrible, pitying way. With a sweet smile, the woman told Sherlock, “You won’t be able to tell anyone about my curse.”

And with that, she and Toby left, crossing the bridge before they turned toward the footpath that led round to the front of the manor.

Sherlock took a deep breath and coughed again before trying his voice. “What’s wrong with me?” he said, and it, too, came out all raspy and harsh. Perhaps he was ill? He did feel rather dizzy.

He looked down at himself and saw his hands, once pale and graceful, with long fingers, had gone gnarled and twisted, roped with veins pushing at fine skin spotted with age. Quickly, he felt his face and throat and realised the skin there, too, was old and wrinkled.

A curse, she’d said. She’d cursed him with age. A minute ago, he’d been twenty. Now he felt fifty years older. His heart gave a thump against his ribs, but it didn’t feel as though there was a danger of anything important failing.

He sat heavily on a bench and took stock of his situation. He’d have to do something about it, of course, but for the moment, he could put this to good use. If nothing else, he was no longer of marriageable age.

So he rose and crossed the bridge, walking carefully at first before determining that he was surprisingly fit for a man of seventy. By the time he reached the manor house, he was a little out of breath, and the stairs up to his room posed some difficulty, but he managed to get up to his room.

He didn’t bother to pack much. He took his violin, of course, and his pipe and tobacco pouch. He decided to take his heavy cloak of fine combed wool and his scarf, but not his finery. In fact, he changed from the doublet his mother had insisted he wore and put on a fitted grey shirt and plain black doublet. He exchanged his hose and soft shoes for breeches and sturdy boots. He had a purse of silver coins that he hung from his belt, and a long knife that would serve for cutting food or holding off a cutpurse, something he’d never done before, though he was certain he could manage. Not that he looked like much of a target for robbery at all.

Before leaving the room that had been both a refuge and a prison for his twenty years, he looked in the silvered glass mirror. His face was old but his pale blue eyes were still sharp.

He could do this, he decided. He’d find a way to break the curse. Maybe he’d even get his revenge. That woman must have been the Witch of the Waste, and while she held the land in a grip of terror, Sherlock knew she had a weak spot. All he had to do was find it.

Resolved, he gathered his belongings and left by the servants’ exit. He didn’t want to encounter Mycroft or Mother on his way out.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time night fell, Sherlock was walking slowly, joints creaking, and his thoughts had turned to the problem of finding shelter for the night. His back had bowed under his own weight, forcing him to lean heavily on a stick he’d found. It was a good, sturdy walking stick, though the wood was age-worn and cracked and the brass ends were tarnished. He didn’t care about how it looked — just that it had enabled him to come this far, for whatever that mattered. Really, he hadn’t made it very far at all — barely up into the hills overlooking Market Chipping, on the far side of the valley from the Holmes Estate. At this rate, he’d never make it to Kingsbury.

He’d decided that the finest wizards had to be there, where the King could call on their skills at his convenience. Even if none of them were willing to help him, he’d gain access to their libraries and find a way to cast the curse-breaking spell himself, if he had no other choice.

Perhaps he should have stolen the family carriage. He didn’t think he could ride a horse, but surely he could have driven a carriage. It couldn’t be that difficult. The stable lad who drove the carriage from the shed to the front drive was only twelve.

But there was no sense in thinking about carriages and horses now. Even if he turned around and went straight back home, he’d barely make it to Market Square before the moon set, and he doubted he’d manage the high streets up to the manor in the dark. Already, his joints were creaking and popping with every step.

“Damn,” he croaked aloud. He shuffled off the road and sat on a fallen tree, glaring up at the starry sky. He’d passed the last farm nearly an hour ago. He packed his pipe and struck a match on the stone and smoked and thought until the pipe had gone cold and ashy.

“I should have taken the carriage,” he muttered. “I need shelter. Why isn’t there a house? There’s always a house.” After he put away the pipe, he pushed up to his feet, hitting the end of the walking stick into the ground with a solid thunk. “What happened to seven years’ difference? So much for the lucky son! Superstitious nonsense, all of it,” he complained as he started walking again, away from Market Chipping. One direction was as good as another, at this point.

Then he saw the wizard’s castle approaching, a black silhouette against the black night sky, obscuring and revealing the stars as tall turrets coughed out a haze of smoke. “Wonderful!” He grinned and headed as quickly as he could towards the castle. As soon as it was a short distance away — close enough that it wasn’t quite so blurry to his aged eyes — he waved his stick and shouted, _“Stop!”_

Obediently, the castle ground to a halt. The billowing smoke huffed straight up into the sky before high winds caught it and carried it off. The castle itself was floating just at the top of the wild heather, with no visible means of support. This was very powerful magic — precisely what Sherlock required.

He walked to the grand double doors, only to find they weren’t quite so grand after all. The pair of them made up a full, rounded arch, but the wood looked old and weathered and the iron straps had gone over to rust, especially around the nails. Looking up at the tall doors, Sherlock estimated that one good smack with his stick might well bring them down on his head.

Still, he hadn’t come this far to stop without trying, so he raised his stick and gave a cautious tap — or tried to. Some wall of force, invisible but very much there, stopped his stick two inches from the surface of the door. A bit of experimental tapping proved that the unseen barrier extended beyond the door to either side.

“Is this how you treat a guest?” he demanded, starting off to the right, smacking the cane against the invisible wall with every other step. His progress wasn’t very fast, but the castle showed no sign of starting up again. Given how badly it rattled and trembled when it moved, it was probably glad to be having a rest.

Around the side, he found another door. This one was smaller and rectangular, and it, too, was hidden away behind the invisible wall. “This is unconscionably rude,” he complained, and kept going.

At the back wall, his stick went from the hollow thud of the invisible surface to a stony clack. “Aha! Finally,” he muttered, touching with his hand to verify that yes, he could touch the actual stone wall of the castle. The stone was smooth on the flat bits but sharp-edged as though it had been fractured instead of properly quarried, and the surface was very cold, far too cold than could be explained by the night air.

“Have you just some from somewhere wintry, then?” he mused aloud, squinting more closely as he walked. He trailed a hand along the sharp-and-smooth surface. He didn’t want to chance missing a door in the darkness.

As soon as he reached a door, though, the castle gave a great cough of smoke and began to move. “Don’t you dare!” he snapped and threw everything he had into running after it. He raised the stick threateningly and smacked it into the door as hard as he could, shouting, “Open up! This instant!”

The door popped open, swinging inward, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of warm firelight. That was all the incentive he needed. He flung himself at the door and caught hold of the jamb. His violin case swung painfully against his back and his stick clattered inside, but he was in!

And pressed up against a person — a girl, actually, no more than fifteen. She had the end of the door in one hand and her other clutched the jamb, as though she were ready to slam the door closed.

“Don’t even _think_ of shutting that door!” he commanded. He gave a heave and shoved past her, sweeping his gaze over the interior of the castle.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the girl asked as the door swung closed behind Sherlock, latching with a firm, decisive click.

Victory! He grinned and hobbled right to the most important thing that caught his eye: a plush armchair set very close to the hearth where a merry fire glowed and crackled. He sank down onto the cushions and every one of his joints seemed to pop before going loose, and he decided on the spot that if the Wizard wanted to get rid of Sherlock, he’d have to employ something far more powerful than the Witch’s curse.

To make his point very clear to the girl, Sherlock unslung his violin case and set it carefully away from the hearth, beside _his_ chair. He sighed with pleasure and closed his eyes.

Politely, the girl crept up beside him and leaned his stick against the chair. “Who are you?”

“Repetitious interrogation. Boring,” Sherlock said tiredly. He rarely slept more than a few hours a night, but his walk had sapped him of his strength. At seventy, he lacked the same reserves of energy he’d had at twenty.

“If you’re here to see the Wizard, he’s gone,” the girl said.

Sherlock smirked. That was even better. The girl wouldn’t have it in her to be rid of Sherlock, which meant that even if the Wizard wasn’t useful, Sherlock would still have a place to spend the night. “I’ll wait,” he announced, just in case she was stupid, as most people generally were.

“But he probably won’t be back until tomorrow,” she warned.

“I said, I’ll wait. You can go now,” Sherlock added, shooing her off with a flick of his hand. He shifted enough that he could wrap his cloak around himself. In a distant sort of way, he considered taking off his boots or propping up his feet, but he was too tired to bother.

 

~~~

 

Sherlock awoke in the dark hours of the night, when the fire had died down to little more than deep red embers. Shivering, he sat forward and looked around, trying to remember what he’d glimpsed earlier. His mind was still sharp, but his memory seemed to have gaps. He’d been so concerned with the warmth of the fire that he hadn’t noticed very much at all.

Now, he first found an oil lamp that the girl must have placed courteously nearby. He felt around in his pipe-pouch for his matches, and soon had the lamp burning cheerily, filling the room with a thin, golden glow.

The room was filthy — some sort of mudroom or servants’ foyer. Two mismatched armchairs were pushed close to the hearth. More importantly, he found a basket of kindling and sticks, and saw the neat woodpile off to one side. It took some creaking joints and muttered swearing learned from the stable lads, but he eventually managed to get a couple of logs onto the fire. He’d never actually built a fire before. It was harder than it looked. Fire required air to breathe and fuel to burn, but getting the fuel onto the existing fire seemed to crush out the air necessary to actually ignite the fresh wood.

Finally, frustrated, he picked up the iron-tipped poker and prodded violently at the fire, which shouted, “Ow! Stop!”

He froze. The tip of the poker swung down, too heavy for his bony wrist to support for very long. Sparks flew, orange and gold and white, turning to blue and purple as the wood finally started to burn.

“Copper chloride,” he said, dropping the poker aside. It clattered loudly and rolled off the stone hearth and onto the floor, raising a puff of dust. Most of the fire was blue, but the heart of it was definitely purple. “And potassium sulfide? Saltpeter?”

“I’m not made of _things,_ ” the fire complained.

Well, that was new. Sherlock had never heard of age causing hallucinations. Unless it was dementia. That thought was chilling. He was nothing without his mind, after all, and if he went mad, he’d never find a way to break the curse and have his revenge.

The violet-blue heart of the fire shifted, not growing upwards like a tongue of flame but actually _moving_ up as though climbing the logs. He looked more closely and imagined he could almost see a face, with dark blue eyes and a violet mouth and light blue wisps of flame-like hair all around.

“What are you?” he asked thoughtfully. He picked up his stick and propped it between his feet so he could lean closer.

“I’m a fire demon,” the blue flame said. The purple mouth moved with the words. “What are _you?_ I can see you’re under a spell.”

“You can see it?” Sherlock demanded, a surge of excitement making his heart thump against his chest. A fire demon! That was even more useful than a wizard. “Can you break the curse?”

The dark blue eyes flickered as though the fire demon were glancing away. “It feels strong. The Witch of the Waste did it, didn’t she?”

“I suspect so, yes. She didn’t exactly introduce herself. So? Can you?”

“It’s more than just a curse, though. There are layers to it. And you won’t be able to say anything about the curse to anyone who doesn’t already —”

“Yes, yes, I know that part,” Sherlock interrupted. _“Can you break the curse?”_

“Yessss... though it will take a while. I’ll have to study it carefully.” Its flames flickered, becoming subdued for a moment. “I’ll break your curse, if...”

Sherlock huffed and thudded his stick into the stone floor. “If? If what?”

“If you help me with something.”

“What?”

“I’m trapped here. I’m bound by a contract that forces me to serve the Wizard of the Castle. If you break the contract, I’ll break your curse.”

“How? I’m not a wizard.”

“But you’re smart. I can tell you’re a genius. Demons know these things. You _can_ break the contract, just as I can break your curse. Doesn’t that sound fair?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back, resting his stick against his knee, and pressed his long, gnarled fingers together. “You wouldn’t have entered into the contract without incentive. What did the Wizard give you in return?”

“I can’t say. I did have a reason, but I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known what he’d want from me.”

“What does he want from you?”

“I’m _trapped,_ ” the fire demon complained. “I can’t leave the hearth, unless it’s to follow one of these copper wires.” A little tongue of flame stuck out from the demon, almost like an arm, complete with a hand and tiny fingers. It touched a braid of tarnished copper wire that had been nailed to the brick hearth like a bad attempt at decoration.

“What for?” Sherlock asked curiously. He pushed up to his feet to look more closely. In all his years of studying theoretical magic, he’d never seen anything like this.

“He attaches magical devices to the other end and makes me store power in them. Then he can use them to cast his spells wherever he goes.” Mournfully, the fire demon said, “I’m not even allowed to go anywhere not connected by the wires.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, following the braided wire that was nailed across the hearth, along the wall, and over to a great work surface that was covered with jars and flasks and scraps of paper and chewed-up quills and pots of ink. Lamps hung overhead, almost lost in the bundles of herbs hanging from hooks stuck in the ceiling. There were knives and a skull and a huge silver bowl as well and an even bigger silver box with rectangular holes cut in the top. The box had a black tail that was wrapped with copper braiding at the far end. Beyond the worktop, he saw a sink with valves and spigots but no pump or hand crank mechanism.

All in all, it looked very, very useful to Sherlock. He’d never had a proper laboratory for his work.

“It’s not fair!” the fire demon complained. It had followed along behind Sherlock, its blue glow weaving in and out of the copper braiding. Now, it rose up from the end of the copper braid nearest the work surface, saying, “I’m being exploited! Held prisoner! He makes me move the castle and maintain the special effects that scare people off —”

“Oh, _do_ shut up!” Sherlock snapped.

The fire demon flickered down into the copper as though sulking. “If you were in my place, you’d want your freedom, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock knew that demons were all liars, but he couldn’t help feeling a sort of understanding. If the Witch of the Waste hadn’t cursed him with age, the day might have ended with him engaged to be married. He shivered at the thought.

“Come back to the fire,” the demon coaxed, zipping along the copper line, back to the hearth. “At your age, you need to stay warm.”

Sherlock huffed and leaned on his stick so he could hobble back to his armchair. “What do you know about it?”

“I know that the Witch took about fifty years off your life.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He’d been trying not to think about that.

“I help you, you help me,” the fire demon said in a wheedling tone. “It’s fair, isn’t it?”

“Yes, fine. All right.”

“You’ll break my contract?” the fire demon pressed.

“If you agree to break the curse on me,” Sherlock countered.

“Done!” The demon blazed up with a flare of violet-blue light so bright that orange seemed to flicker deep in its eyes. “I’ll break your curse the moment you break my contract!”

Sherlock glared, sensing that he’d been tricked. He should have known better than to negotiate with a demon when he was tired and cold and aching from his long walk. “Fine,” he agreed, knowing he was trapped. “Tell me how to break your contract.”

“I can’t. Part of the contract is that neither the Wizard nor I can actually reveal any of the details.”

In a sudden fury, Sherlock raised his stick, ready to jab at the demon.

“No! Please, you’re ever so brilliant!” the demon cried, defensively holding out its little flickering flame-hands. “You can find out what it is, if you observe! Please! The contract is hurting us both, in the long run — and I really can be trusted! I’m _here,_ aren’t I? I’m keeping my word to the Wizard, despite what he’s doing to me...”

Sherlock stared thoughtfully at the fire demon. Curse-for-contract: that was the bargain. But _Sherlock_ wasn’t trapped here. If at any point this seemed like a waste of time, he could simply leave. And if the fire demon really was trapped here, it wouldn’t be able to come after him.

“How long?” he asked.

“No longer than a month.”

“A month!”

“Please,” the fire demon begged. “It will take me that long to study the curse! You want me to break it, not just change it, don’t you? You don’t want to spend the rest of your life as a mushroom or a hat rack, after all.”

Sherlock’s hands clenched on his stick, but the fire demon had a point. “Very well. One month, your contract for my curse. But if I suspect for one _instant_ that you’re playing me false —”

“I wouldn’t!”

“— I’ll tell the Wizard everything, and walk out, leaving _him_ to deal with you.”

“I wouldn’t,” the fire demon repeated, though much more fearfully, and he sank low into the logs as though hiding.

Sherlock glared into the hearth, but the fire demon seemed to have gone into hiding behind the orange flames that flared up bright and warm. Heat sank into his bones, reminding him that he’d spent the day getting more exercise than was typical in an entire week, all the while labouring under a curse. Usually, he only slept for a few hours, but the warmth lulled him into a doze, soothing away his worry about the curse and his bargain with the fire demon and the unknown wizard. He’d sort it all out tomorrow...


End file.
